


Hang On Past the Dream

by emmawantsawarbler



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmawantsawarbler/pseuds/emmawantsawarbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine wasn't looking at him. A jazz band chimed in quietly in the background. His voice was low. The piano was mellow. Kurt wouldn't face him. Kurt couldn't face him. "All the guests at the party," Blaine shook his head, the corners of his lips upturned in a rueful smile, "they're so insincere. They intrude and exclude this impossible year!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang On Past the Dream

Kurt didn’t know what to think when he entered Callbacks and saw the same manic curls that he used to (and secretly still does) love running his fingers through. It had been awhile since he’d gone to the bar due to the heartbreak and heartache that came with it. Rachel had gone once or twice, but Kurt never dared to show. He would go when he was ready. For some odd reason, he’d managed to be persuaded into going to the place before then. However, upon seeing who was there, he wasn’t so sure if he could stay. He was ready to turn around and leave when the soft sound of a piano being played made him freeze.

Blaine wasn’t looking at him. That stung more than Kurt could ever admit. A jazz band chimed in quietly in the background. Blaine looked up at Kurt suddenly, and if he thought being ignored was bad, being stared at by those honey eyes he once called home was a whole new level of pain. He took a nervous step back, but a shove from someone trying to enter pushed him forward and closer to the boy who broke his heart. Blaine was watching him.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” was all he said before he was leaning towards the microphone, lips parting to sing the first verse: “There’s no sunshine this impossible year.”

His voice was low. The piano was mellow. “Only black days and sky grey and clouds full of fear,” he held the note, though his voice shook the tiniest bit, “and storms full of sorrow that won’t disappear … just typhoons and monsoons this impossible year.” His lips formed a bitter smile as he played on.

“There’s no good times this impossible year,” he sang, voice crescendoing slightly, and Kurt took a few steps forward. “Just a beachfront of bad blood and a coast that’s unclear.” His gaze was glued to Kurt. “All the guests at the party,” he shook his head, the corners of his lips upturned in a rueful smile, “they’re so insincere. They intrude and exclude this impossible year!”

His eyebrows rose somewhat at the intensity in which he sang the next verse: “There’s no you and me this impossible year! Only heartache and heartbreak and gin made of tears! The bitter pills I swallow! The scars souvenir! That tattoo, your last bruise this impossible year!” His shoulders shook as he carried on. “There’s never air to breathe! There’s never in-between! These nightmares always hang on past the dream…,” the word rang out as the instruments took over.

Blaine slowed his playing ever so slightly after a while, and his voice was quiet when he sang the last portion of the song. He took a shaky breath. “There’s no sunshine.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and Kurt saw a few tears leak out. He didn’t know what to make of it. “There’s no you and me,” Blaine’s eyes were open, and he was looking at Kurt once more. “There’s no good times.

“This impossible year.”

Kurt stared at Blaine with wide eyes as his ex stood abruptly, the piano bench creating a harsh grating noise. A few people winced. Blaine looked like a wreck. The fact that his hair was out of its gel-prison should’ve been a dead giveaway that he wasn’t faring well at all, but Kurt was so shocked that he had completely disregarded the fact. But now that Blaine was there, so open and obvious, Kurt couldn’t help but notice. He wore a rumpled cardigan over a plain white button-up, and his blue-green bowtie was askew. His dark jeans were loose, and the ends covered the tops of his shoes. He trudged over to the bar.

Kurt wouldn’t face him. Kurt couldn’t face him.

No. He needed this alone time.

With a heavy heart and regret in every limb, Kurt turned and exited the building.

He was locked in an impossible year.


End file.
